


Paper Tigers

by robotsfighting



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Original Songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotsfighting/pseuds/robotsfighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany visits Kurt at Dalton to ask for his help. Kurt tries his best. Blaine has followup questions. Takes place a few weeks after Original Songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Tigers

On the list of people Kurt expected to see sitting on the stone lip of the fountain in front of Dalton Academy, Jesus was last. Brittany Pierce was a close second-to-last.

He almost didn’t see her. Classes had just let out for the day, and he was being carried by a tide of hideous red piping out of the front doors of the school, because all at once it seemed to strike everyone that it was Spring, sort of, and it was finally warm, and there was suddenly the opportunity to _go outside_. He was surrounded by Warblers, all laughing at something ridiculous that Trent had said. (Trent was laughing, too, because he knew he was ridiculous, and even though he’d been going to Dalton for months, Kurt still couldn’t get used to the lack of animosity in the teasing. It made him almost lightheaded sometimes.)

It took David tapping his shoulder and pointing for Kurt to turn and see her. David smiled as he said, “Another spy? Are you all that bad at blending in?”

Kurt frowned, gripping the shoulder strap of his bag and looking down at the bright yellow jacket and unfortunate fuzzy cat ear hat. She was picking at the hem of her skirt, staring at her knees. “I’m sure they would at least remember to send a boy,” he said, distracted.

David tilted his head, watching her. “She looks sad.”

It echoed Kurt’s thoughts exactly. “I sort of thought sadness was a foreign concept to her.” Like dishonesty. And tact. “I’m going to--” he said, and started down the wide stone steps without finishing.

“Warblers practice at four!” David called after him, smiling. “Remember!”

Kurt waved over his shoulder, weaving around a group of chess club guys who were having a passionate, quiet argument about the name of some chess move. ( _The Smyslov Screw? Really?_ ) It really was warm; when Kurt stepped out of the shadow of the school, the sun fell against his face, and he could actually feel it. That little tingle of heat. He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in, tilting his face up. It felt and sounded like the entire school really had poured out of the two ornate front doors once the last bell had finally rung. There was laughing and talking and shouting, and it made Kurt feel light, pleasantly untethered. There were boys spread out across the lawn rolling towards the distant gates, he saw when he opened his eyes. Boys lying back in the grass with their arms tucked under their heads, or sitting in circles and talking, or playing an impromptu game of flag football, ties waving out of their back pockets.

Brittany didn’t look up until he was standing in front of her, saying her name. When she did, he could see that it was worse than he’d expected. She looked listless, and not in the way that was normal for her. It was more blank than that. Real, blank sadness. Kurt frowned again. “What are you doing here, Brittany? Are you okay?”

She squinted at him in the light, looking him up and down. Her fingers bunched in the fabric of her skirt. “How do I know it’s you?” she asked. “Everyone’s dressed the same.”

Kurt was actually surprised by the wave of homesickness that swept through him with Brittany’s crazy question. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, suddenly, ridiculously, because even if he and Brittany hadn’t really had any meaningful exchange of words since that difficult-to-forget week when Kurt had gone Mellencamp for no sane reason, she was still part of New Directions, had still spent the better part of a year and change in his presence, and was here looking up at him like he hadn’t abandoned them the second things got a little heavy.

(A voice in his head, eerily similar to Blaine’s, admonished him from a phone call five months in the past. _This isn’t running. This is – maybe it’s coming home._ )

Kurt cleared his throat past the unexpected, unprompted emotion. He spread his arms, making his bag swing a little, and the strap slipped down into the crook of his elbow. “Ask me a question only Kurt would know the answer to.”

She tilted her head to the side, considering, still peering up at Kurt’s face. Finally, she asked, “What flavor lip gloss did I wear last year?”

Kurt was fairly certain that any sophomore, junior, senior and recent graduate at McKinley would be able to answer that question. “Root beer?” he asked.

Brittany’s face lit up, and she leapt to her feet, smiling wide. “It _is_ you!” She threw her arms around him and pulled him against her, the hug strong and insistent. He froze, at first, surprised and uncertain, because this was a cheerleader (now ex-cheerleader) hugging him in the middle of the front lawn of his private all-boys boarding school, and of all the things that Kurt thought would happen during high school at the beginning of freshman year, this was basically ranked below _zombie outbreak_ and _sprouting wings_. But he relaxed after a moment, and he dropped his bag to hug her back. Her jacket was warm from the sun, and he pressed his hands against it, smiling. Maybe a little sappily. He was only human.

“Any particular reason you’re here, Brit?” he asked, muffled.

As though reminded, moment broken, she sagged in his arms, then sank back down onto the wide ledge of the fountain. The vacant, weirdly broken look crept back over her face. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked.

Kurt blinked down at her, then settled beside her. “Yes?” he said, uncertain. He could see the reflection of her back in the clear water of the fountain. Her hunched shoulders made something quiver uneasily in his stomach. Had he ever seen Brittany so upset? What could possibly have happened?

“Can you teach me how to be gay?”

Kurt nearly fell backwards into the fountain. “What?”

She turned her head to look at him, the fingers of both hands playing with one of the long tassles on her hat. “I heard that you have a boyfriend now. So you’re, like, officially gay. And I need to know how to do that.”

He gaped at her. Completely disregarding the _officially gay_ thing, because this was Brittany and, as previously established, tact wasn’t a strong suit – just, what? He opened and closed his mouth a few times, the gears in his brain struggling to fit into working order and produce words. “Is this about Santana?” he finally managed, his voice rising on the name, as though he was surprised he was even asking the question. (And he was, because there was lesbianism, and there was exhibitionism, and he really didn’t think the twain met anywhere near Brittany and Santana.)

But at the name, the shutters cinched harder over Brittany’s eyes, keeping all light effectively out. She took the kind of breath that, for any other person, would have tears somewhere behind it. “Can I tell you a secret? Like the kind of Harry Potter secret where if you tell anybody you die?”

Ignoring the startling discovery that Brittany Pierce understood five minutes of what Kurt was sure must have been one of the Harry Potter _movies_ , he nodded.

She inched closer to him, leaning with her arm balanced on the stone beneath them. She brought her lips close to his ear and whispered, “She told me she was in love with me.”

Kurt jerked away from her. He stared at her, blinking, watching the very prominent, very earnest downturn of her mouth, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, her clear reflection in the water. She was still leaning toward him. Still looking at him for help. And, as much as this revelation made Kurt want to run away very quickly (because he wasn’t good at this, because there weren’t enough musicals to teach him how to coach this kind of thing, because the last time he tried to help someone with a relationship that person outed his girlfriend’s pregnancy to her family in the process), he reached back out to take Brittany’s arm in his hand and stood, pulling her up with him.

“This is an inside conversation,” he told her, and scooped up his bag before marching them up towards the school.

 

When Andrews, the dorm floor monitor (and a little enthusiastic about his job), stopped Kurt in the middle of the hallway with a gentle reminder about the No Girls On Dorm Floors policy, Kurt pointed at his face. Andrews hesitated. Kurt emphasized the gesture, eyebrows raised, expectant, silently pointing out the fact that he was more likely to set Brittany on fire than have sex with her. She held on to his arm, her eyes roaming the walls, the people passing by them, and seemed completely oblivious to the silent battle of propriety over common sense happening next to her.

Andrews finally relented with a sigh, sweeping his arm at Kurt’s door, and Kurt nodded his thanks before ushering Brittany towards it, out of the sight of the many suddenly-interested Dalton boys, hanging out of their rooms or stopping their conversations to take in the very attractive girl with her arm through Kurt’s.

“Just this one time, Kurt!” Andrews called after him.

“I appreciate it!” Kurt called over his shoulder, then shut the door.

Brittany lingered just inside of the room for a moment, looking around with her equivalent of an interested expression. The room was on the fraying side of immaculate: books were piled haphazardly on his desk; his closet was open, with a few shirts on hangars out of place on the door; his bedside table was a litter of water bottles and forgotten receipts and pens. His fingers twitched to straighten it, suddenly. Company was company, even Brittany-company.

But of course, she didn’t notice. She moved instead to his desk, leaning down and peering between the bars of the cage he’d situated carefully there. She raised her fingers just shy of the metal, tilting her head at the little creature inside. “It’s so pretty,” she said.

Kurt smiled a little. He moved toward her and around, leaning over the other side of the desk to see the cage himself. “His name is Bocelli,” he told her. “Wes wanted to name him after one of the other Three Tenors, but I thought that would be an affront to Pavarotti’s memory, and it was only a week after he died, so we settled on a more modern Italian tenor.” The bird shifted its wings and sang a few short notes, tilting its head back at Brittany. She pressed her fingers briefly to the bars, then walked over to the bed and sat down.

“I like it when you speak French,” she said. “I don’t have to pay attention as much.”

Kurt sighed, leaning back against the desk. He watched her play with her hat for a moment, tugging its ears softly. “So,” he said quietly. “Santana’s in love with you.”

He saw Brittany freeze on the bed, her fingers stilling, the slight forward curve of her spine holding ballet-perfect. Then she wilted completely, her fingers smoothing straight against the hat, against her lap, her upper body folding against itself as her arms snaked around either side of her waist, like she was holding herself in. She stared down at the floor. “She said it’s why she’s so mean all the time. Because she has feelings. And she was scared.”

Kurt’s chest hurt. It hurt for Brittany (so much for Brittany, because she was actually physically trying to hold herself together with her fingertips, trying not to crumble into dust on the stylish gray rug he’d bought to cover up the cold linoleum), but it also hurt for Santana. Because he understood. It didn’t excuse her behavior, or even make him like her any more than he did, which was admittedly not a lot since she’d been one of his major tormentors before glee club threw them incongruously together – but he understood the fear. He understood the need to push everything away. Kurt directed his frustration with how the world looked at him inward, mostly (he thought, he wasn’t sure), or outward when it was easier to be bitchy than to process actual emotions. But Santana – apparently Santana had those same emotions. And she directed her frustration with pinpoint accuracy at everyone she met. Except for Brittany.

He took a breath. “Do you love her back?”

She was quiet for a moment, still bent over her knees, still holding her sides. Then he heard it. A sniff. And another. And then he was moving, across the room, quickly, towards the bed, falling with a bounce onto the mattress and reaching out to pull her against him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and letting her turn her face against his uniform blazer. He could feel the wet of her tears start to seep into the material, and his fingers splayed against her back, pulling her in closer as he set his cheek against her hair.

Because mostly what he wanted to do was run away. It was literally a choice of either chaining himself to her or fleeing the room. It was scary and strange and he didn’t know if he would be able to help her, if he would make it worse, if this was what she wanted. A year ago – hell, six months ago -- he would have frozen, heart in his throat, uncertain and wishing that someone would come and take over for him, make it not his responsibility, because he wasn’t even able to keep himself happy, let alone other people. But now he latched himself around her and held on, because he wanted to know – he wanted to learn how to be a better friend than that.

And when her fingers gripped his shirt beneath his jacket like it was the only thing keeping her from being flung off of the planet, and she burrowed her head against his chest like it belonged there, had always belonged there – it felt like maybe he was getting it right.

“I feel like my heart’s broken,” she said against his chest, muffled and waterlogged, her shoulders still jumping under his hands. “Not the way Rachel always says her heart’s broken. Like, actually broken. The way your dad’s was.”

Kurt rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. “Why?”

She took a shuddering breath. “I love Artie,” she said, “but I love Santana, too. You shouldn’t be able to love two people at the same time. My heart isn’t working right.”

Kurt smiled, and it was half-lost in Brittany’s hair. Her crying was tapering off now; her back shook less, and he could feel her chest expanding with actual breaths instead of the ragged little gasps of before. She relaxed against him, and it actually felt – nice. Brittany was a dancer; she was solid. Not as solid as, say, Blaine (who, as Kurt had had a few weeks to find out, was very solid), but better than trying to hold someone like Quinn Fabray, who was wispy and maybe a little overthin, who felt like she would break at the slightest touch. When Brittany leaned against his shoulder, he counterbalanced her, and he brushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

She cried prettily; her cheeks were a little pink, and her eyes a little swollen, but her face wasn’t scrunched and painful the way he knew his got sometimes. She did it quietly and calmly, the way she tended to do everything.

“I don’t think your heart’s broken,” he told her. And the words were there, in his head, sort of. “I think you can love as many people as you want at the same time.” He took a breath. Closed his eyes. _If Blaine can go to my father and ask him to talk to me about sex,_ Kurt thought, the old flare of never-forgiving-him in the back of his mind, _I can talk about this with Brittany._ He let the breath out on the words, “Have you ever heard of polyamory?”

Brittany sniffed. “I failed geometry.”

Kurt made a noise in the back of his throat and swallowed the hysterical urge to laugh. “That’s actually kind of fitting,” he said, _and sort of obvious_ , “but it doesn’t have anything to do with geometry. It means that two people in a relationship can date other people, and no one gets mad about it or anything.”

It wasn’t the smoothest explanation ever, but Kurt wasn’t exactly sitting in front of a dictionary, and he was already uncomfortable with the subject in the first place. Unlike what Brittany seemed to believe, not every gay person got a handbook about “alternative” lifestyles.

But Brittany was shaking her head against him. “I don’t think Artie or Santana would like that.”

Kurt frowned. “Artie knows that you and Santana – um--”

“Have sex?”

Kurt blushed. “Yes.”

Brittany shrugged. He felt the rise and fall of her shoulder, and watched as she wiped tears away from her face and rubbed them in absent circles into Kurt’s pants. “I guess. Santana says it isn’t cheating because the plumbing’s different, but I wanted to make sure Artie knew that, so I told him and he wasn’t mad or anything.”

Kurt really couldn’t imagine that. If Blaine were to have sex with a girl and then tell him that it wasn’t cheating, Kurt would – he had no idea. Bury himself under the floorboards of the Warblers practice room, or something. Kurt was built for one person at a time. The touch of fingers. Romance. Eyes catching across a room, across a table, a blush, awkwardness, tangled legs and hands. He was aware of other ways of being, but they didn’t appeal to him. Brittany was different. Not bad-different. Just different.

“Why would he mind you dating Santana, then?” Because it sounded like Artie was not-bad-different, too.

Brittany sniffed again, and he knew that the tears were back in force. Her voice shuddered when she said, low, “I think Artie only wants me to be in love with him.” She turned her face back against his chest, while his hands ghosted over her back. “And Santana,” she said between – he didn’t want to say ‘sobs,’ because they weren’t, they were too calm, but between breaths, shaking and short and uncomfortable, “she doesn’t want me to date Artie anymore. I don’t think she wants to be a polygon.”

Kurt hid his face against the side of her head to wait out the hysteria he was sure was written all over him. _Kurt Hummel, you will not laugh at this desperate, crying person._

He waited until she was breathing normally again, rubbing her back in little circles with his fingers, matching the strength of his grip with her own. She calmed relatively quickly, all of her weight against him, like she’d wrung herself out.

When he pulled back to look at her, she met his eyes and, really, she was beautiful when she was lucid. Whether she was dancing or crying. When she wasn’t talking about ducks or double rainbows, she was eerily pretty. She took a breath in through her nose, and held it, and let it smoothly go, and he squeezed her arm lightly, smiling small and sad. “So you have to choose between them.”

She sniffed, then wiped at her eyes with her arm, smearing her makeup. “I don’t want to. I want both of them.”

Kurt sighed, letting his head fall against her shoulder. He was at a loss. “I can’t tell you who to pick,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve never had to make this kind of decision before. And, really, knowing my luck, if I did, I would definitely make the wrong choice.”

“I have to find another gay person to ask,” she murmured, sounding tired.

That made him think of something. “You know,” he said, sitting back a little, “you came to ask me how to be gay. Which is, you know, incredibly offensive and not actually the way things work, but we’ll ignore that.” He reached out and took her hand. (He just did it, without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world to touch another person, and he wondered when all of this had happened.) “I think you want to choose Santana.”

She flexed her hand in his, sweeping her thumb over his palm. “But I don’t want to hurt Artie.”

“You’re going to hurt someone,” Kurt murmured. “Who would you rather not hurt? Artie, or Santana?”

Brittany was quiet for a long while. She was mulling it over, he knew, looking down at their clasped hands, thumb still moving back and forth. She was so serious, her fingers tangling through his. He lifted his eyes, looked over her shoulder, and fell on the canary cage on his desk. Bocelli seemed to look back at him. He’d been so quiet this entire time, singing softly, shortly, as though he knew it wasn’t the time. He fluttered his wings and hopped once along his perch.

She spoke when Kurt had almost forgotten that she was there. “When Santana was crying when I told her I couldn’t be with her, I felt like crying, too,” she said slowly. “And it hurts a lot that she won’t talk to me anymore. And I want to make her happy.” She squeezed Kurt’s hand. “Pretty much more than anything.”

Kurt nodded. “I think you should talk to Artie. Tell him about all of this. See what he thinks.”

She raised her eyes to his. “I wish I hadn’t said anything,” she said, mournful, her voice low and quiet. “I wish I’d just kept doing what we were doing. It’s all because I told her that our relationship was confusing.” She paused. “It _was_ confusing. It _is_ confusing.”

Kurt pulled her into a hug, then. Because he could. Because he thought maybe she needed it. She wrapped her arms around his back and he spoke into her shoulder. “I think you did the right thing,” he said. He didn’t know the full story, but it still sounded right. “You should be honest about the way you feel. I think that’s something I learned a lot about this year. Not being honest is more painful than being honest.”

Brittany held on for a few more moments, then slowly pulled away. “I should go and talk to Artie,” she said. She stood up and pulled her skirt straight, then pulled the fuzzy hat over her head.

“Do you want me to walk you to your car?”

She shook her head. “I forget where I parked, so I’ll probably just call my parents to come and get me.” She bent over and pecked a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for talking to me, Kurt,” she said. “I like you better when you’re happy.”

Kurt’s eyebrows rose, but he stumbled over anything to say in response. She was at the door before he found his voice enough to say, “Any time, boo.”

She smiled at him, then waved as she opened the door and was gone.

 

“You haven’t turned the page for ten minutes.”

The window was open. The breeze drifted lazily through it, cooler than the afternoon, but sweet, and Kurt breathed it in. Soft music, something acoustic and mellow, hung around the speakers on Blaine’s desk, turned low to be nothing but background noise.

“You know, it’s creepy when you do that,” Kurt said easily, and turned the page even though he hadn’t actually read it.

“I’m just wondering what’s so fascinating about--” Blaine twisted his body a little higher against Kurt’s chest to look at the page Kurt was open to in his Norton Anthology, “Walt Whitman.” He considered for a moment, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Nevermind.” He shifted down again, resting his back sideways against Kurt’s waist and thighs, holding his own book (US History) against his knees. “I understand if you’re having deep thoughts about American romantic poetry.”

Kurt smirked. “You’re more the deep-thoughts-about-poetry type than I am,” he said, setting the book down beside him on the bed, spine-up and pages open, and Blaine’s concerned expression as he looked at it and the admonition for treating books poorly ready at the edge of his tongue were neatly changed and silenced by the hand Kurt slipped into his curls, nails dragging lightly along his scalp. He tipped his head back against Kurt’s palm, letting his own book fall to the bed.

“You’re distracting me,” he murmured, looking sideways and up at Kurt’s face. “You want me to fail history. You don’t want me to know who our nation’s twenty-seventh president was.”

“Taft,” Kurt said. “I have a mnemonic.” He dragged his nails again, fascinated by the expression that crossed Blaine’s face when he did it. Blaine’s eyes slipped closed; his head dropped back, exposing more of his neck over the hem of his t-shirt. It made the ridges of his clavicles more obvious, and Kurt suddenly wanted many inappropriate things that he thought Whitman would probably approve of.

“So handy, so handsome,” Blaine sighed. He hummed when Kurt’s thumbnail drew feather-light over the nape of his neck. “Please never stop doing that. Follow me around all day doing that.”

“Your teachers would probably have something to say about that.”

“I’ll get a note from God,” Blaine insisted languidly. “I’ll get it notarized.” Kurt laughed, and his hand in Blaine’s hair straightened out, smoothed, settled. Blaine turned his head a little, looking at Kurt, smiling softly. “Andrews told me that you had a girl in your room today. More New Directions drama?”

Kurt smirked, but it washed away after a moment. He let out a long breath. “Brittany,” he said. “She’s dumb as a bag of questionably sanitary hammers, but she had a problem that didn’t involve imaginary things, so I tried to help her.”

Blaine nodded. He reached out and took Kurt’s free hand in his, weaving their fingers together. “Did you?”

“I--” Kurt said, and stopped. He shrugged, looking at their hands together, Blaine’s darker and bigger, calloused and perfect. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I tried. I’m not – good at that. Helping people. I never really know what to say.”

Blaine smiled at him, soft and all-encompassing, and it made Kurt’s breath catch in the back of his throat. “I think you are,” Blaine said. “You care a lot about people.”

Kurt grinned weakly. “That doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m Dr. Phil.”

Blaine laughed, and let his head drop back against Kurt’s hand again. “I’m honestly grateful for that. I always thought he was kind of creepy.” Kurt snorted in response, and Blaine turned a little, rolling so that his chest was against Kurt’s abdomen, his chin against Kurt’s sternum. He smiled up at him. “But I don’t think that’s why you were staring at _Leaves of Grass_ instead of reading it.”

Kurt sighed. His fingers tapped against Blaine’s skull. “You don’t get points for being observant.”

“I do, you just aren’t the one who gives them to me.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and let his head fall back so that he was looking up. The single, dim lamp cast a warm glow on the ceiling, overlaid with the perfectly-still shadows of the trees outside of the window, each reaching further than the other across the room. “She said I was happy.”

When Kurt looked back down at him, Blaine’s smile was _dazzling_ , and it made something warm and bizarre curl up in his chest. “Are you?” Blaine asked.

Blaine’s chin dug against Kurt’s chest as he spoke, and Kurt imagined a tiny bruise forming there, a mark. The music still hung quietly in the corner, sweet and soft, and the breeze through the window still tangled around them, almost imperceptible.

And Kurt knew that this was something he was still learning, was still afraid of. The weight of another body against his, the responsibility of someone else’s happiness. They were all the same kind of scary; newness, and _want_ – and comfort with himself, which, honestly, was going to be ridiculously hard-won in the end, if he ever got there. But he was lying here, with another person curled close on top of him, a person who was asking him questions like _are you happy?_ , the answer to which could make or break any future plans Kurt might have, and – he wasn’t scared. Or maybe he was, a little. But he was sure, at least.

“Yes.”

Blaine’s fingers were against his cheek and Blaine’s lips against his before the word made it out to the room, like Blaine had caught it and swallowed it and owned it. Kurt breathed through the laugh that bubbled in his chest and kissed back, feeling absurd and luminous, because Blaine’s enthusiasm was ridiculous and Kurt was _so happy_ , in the face of everything, every unknown future thing. _So happy,_ with his free hand cupping the back of Blaine’s neck, their breath moving back and forth between them.

When Blaine pulled away, his smile was dazed and there was color in his face. “I’m obviously glad to hear it.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and tugged with the hand still curled through Blaine’s hair, so that Blaine flopped unceremoniously back down against him with a surprised laugh. Kurt carded his fingers through the curls, slowly, sweeping back from Blaine’s forehead, and Blaine exhaled warm and boneless against Kurt’s chest.

“It’s not just you,” Kurt murmured, fingers still running back and starting over, slow with the rhythm of Blaine’s breath. “You’re a big part of it, but it’s – everything.” _Family. Safety. Love. The future._ “There are a lot of reasons.”

“Good,” Blaine said. His eyes were closed, and he rubbed his cheek back and forth against Kurt’s sternum, burrowing closer to him. “It’s better that way.”

Kurt cast his eyes back up to the ceiling. The branches still stretched there, like arms and long fingers, the way they did when he was a baby and he thought they would steal him away. But they were just shadows, all knotted and woven together, like a crowd of clasped hands.

He felt Blaine’s hand sneak slowly over to his own and lace their fingers together again, and he smiled.

“We’re not getting any work done tonight, are we?”

“I’m not moving, so probably not.”


End file.
